


Then live for me

by thewolvescalledmehome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 22:07:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: For the dialogue prompt on tumblr: "I should have died. That would have made you happy."Or where Sansa is the one who talks to Jon in his cells, not Tyrion.





	Then live for me

When Jon heard the footsteps in the hall, he thought knew immediately what his sentence would be. But then he heard the drag of fabric against the flagstones, and raised his head. He had been waiting for boots, marching. The footsteps did not fit those of an executioner, as he had expected.

He was awaiting death. He had faced it once, but that time it had caught him unawares. This time Jon would be prepared. From the moment he had made his decision, from the moment he chose Sansa, chose his sisters, he had steeled himself with the knowledge that he was on stolen time anyway. The Red Woman brought him back for a purpose, and with the war for the living won and the throne destroyed, Jon couldn’t imagine what other purpose he had left. If he must die, at least he had peace in the knowledge that Winterfell, that his sisters, were safe.

But as the footsteps grew closer, Jon grew more certain that it was not death approaching. The thought made him nervous. He was ready for death.

It was the idea of life that made him uneasy.

When the rusted iron groaned open, Jon wearily lifted his head. When he saw who stood in the doorway, he scrambled to his feet.

He stupidly wished he had used some of that water that had been brought to wash some of the grime from his face, his hands.

Sansa looked as radiant as ever, he thought, aside from the worry clear on her brow and the tremble in her lips.

She was rushing forward, wrapping him in her arms, before he had even the chance to react. His irons clicked as he held her. It was instinct more than anything else, to embrace her, to bury his face in her shoulder. To quake as she held him back. All of his steel, every guard and mask he had ever put in place melted when he was in her arms.

When she released him, Jon felt the cold and dampness of the cell seep further into his bones. He hadn’t minded the cold or damp before, but with her in front of him, with the idea of life in front of him, he felt it tenfold.

“I hadn’t thought I would see you.” His voice was hoarse from misuse.

“We came as quickly as we could.”

“We?”

“Bran, Arya, and I. And the Northern Lords, of course. None took to kindly to the idea that their king was being held prisoner.”

Jon saw the familiar stubborn glint in her eye. One he remembered seeing often in the other Starks when he was a child, but one he had rarely seen in Sansa until they had met again at Castle Black. He still did not fully understand what it meant. He had his guesses, but they did not all line up with his understanding of her—though even that was often in question. She had always been the one he understood the least, and that was still the case. She still often surprised him.

“I am not their king. I bent the knee.”

“To a queen and a throne that no longer exist,” she reminded.

He heard the edge in her voice. He thought it might still be the anger she felt. She had one accused him of kneeling because of the queen’s beauty and nothing else. At the time Jon couldn’t bring himself to explain the only beauty he saw was hers. How disgusted she might have been, if she knew about the thoughts he had had about her, his half-sister.

 _No,_ a voice that was not his own whispered. _She is not your sister. She never was. You were never Ned Stark’s son._

“They want you back, Jon. Your people want you back.”

Jon turned away from her. He instead looked out the solitary window the cell offered. The light was different here than it was in the North. It was brighter, and the color warmer, but he found it less welcoming. He preferred the cold, harsh light of Winterfell. It didn’t sting the eyes or boil the skin.

“I meant to die here.” He said it more to himself than to Sansa.

The only light he enjoyed was right before sunset. The light was like that of a fire—like that of someone who’s hair was kissed by fire. It made him think of the women he had loved, both of which had red hair. He had planned to request his execution to be at sunset. Then he could have imagined that the last thing he saw was her hair.

“You don’t have to,” she rushed.

Jon heard her step closer. He nearly felt the warmth coming off her. It was nearly too much.

He kept his face turned to the window.

“It’s been decided that you’ll go North. To the Wall, but I’m sure once everything has settled down, you can come back and take your rightful place as King.”

“No.”

“No? Jon—”

“I should have died. That would have made you happy.”

“Happy? That would make me happy? Your death?”

“With me dead, you’ll be Queen and the Lords won’t be angry about my kneeling or any sympathy you have shown me… It would be easier. They always preferred you anyway. You were far better at it than me.”

“Listen to me, Jon Snow—” The use of his surname forced him to turn. Her eyes blazed. “—You did what you had to to save the North. You saw her for what she was. You knew what she would do to the North, to Winterfell, our _home_ , if you refused. Everyone sees that clearly now. Your death would make problems more than solve, and it would…”

Jon looked at her suddenly. She had sounded as though she was fortifying herself, her words getting steadily stronger, but her voice died at the end. What could have possibly caused her voice to be extinguished the way it did?

“Your death is the last thing that would make me happy,” she said quietly, primly.

“You have your home back. You have your siblings. You have no need of me.”

“Not all of them, I won’t. Not if you’re dead.”

“I’m not your sibling, remember? I never was.”

“You may not be Ned Stark’s son, but your death would hurt me just as much as Robb’s did, or Rickon’s.”

Jon found he had to look away from her eyes. They were still glinting stubbornly, but tears shimmered there as well. He hated the idea of being the reason for her crying, but he had to make her understand. It hurt to be with her. To be reminded of all the things he wasn’t, and all the things he could never be.

“Your death would be worse,” she whispered. Jon closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to hear this. “Oh, Jon. Do you think I care so little for you? Do you not understand why I called the bannermen, an army? I thought of losing you is one I could never endure.”

Jon felt all of those feelings he fought so hard to suffocate swell at her words. He had to remind himself that she thought of him as naught but a brother. Even if he wasn’t, they were raised as such.

“You saved me more times than I can count, Jon. You protected me from Ramsay, gave me back my home, fought for the living, and killed the queen who would have undoubtedly killed us all. I no longer know how to live without you, Jon.”

He raised his eyes to hers, something close to hope, to a willingness to live, suddenly clawing inside him.

“I want you by my side, Jon. Not as my brother, but as my husband. If you’ll have me.”

“Sansa…” Her name burned him.

He was filled with the urge to embrace her again, but the last thing he wanted was to frighten her. He was tempted to ask if she was certain, or if she was mad. He saw the steel in her eyes though, and knew it was futile. She had proved often enough that she knew her own mind, and that it was a sharp mind at that.

“You having me would make me happy, Jon. Not your death. Never your death.”

All his words died instantly on his tongue. He moved towards her. He thought the harsh whisper or the bitter chill of the irons he still wore might cause her to flinch. She stood as steady as she always did, even when his fingers traced her jaw.

“You were the only thing I thought to live for,” he whispered truthfully.

“Then live for me,” she breathed, before pressing her mouth to his.

When he opened his eyes again, for the first time, the light didn’t hurt his eyes.


End file.
